The Bored, The Addict, The Monster & The Forgotten
by Prussan
Summary: First ever fanfic for me. Standard Sherlock/John drabble etc. Predominantly an exploration of the psychological anguish they each suffer from. Basically, Angst/Hurt/Comfort. Rated T because I'm cautious... Drug reference, Some adult themes
1. The Bored

"_I bet you get bored, don't ya? I know you do. Man like you. So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it. Still the addict. But this. This is what you're really addicted to. You do anything—anything at all to stop being bored. You're not bored now are ya?" _

The dying man's words echoed in his mind; running over and over again, making their mocking intent clearer with the repetition of every syllable. Sherlock held his forehead, briefly rubbing his temples before clasping both hands in front of his lips. He was bored.

"_Still the addict." _the voice whispered, and for a moment he didn't know which was worse, the intense dullness he felt, or the fact that he knew, the old man had been right. No, he decided, what was worse was that it was his cross to bare - the exhilarating high of a drug and the crushing low that always followed – and he knew it.

Both his mind and body physically ached for distraction, driving him far enough to consider, and promptly dismiss, trying his hand at a Millennium Prize Problem, in spite of the fact that mathematics was not his strong suite. It briefly occurred to him that, perhaps, it was someone and not something, he needed. It was at this moment in which Dr John Watson entered the otherwise static room.

Sherlock appeared to be thinking and this took John as odd, as all Sherlock had done for the past several days was rant about how bored he was. And destroy the wall paper, Mrs Hudson would never let him forget that. John opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, shutting his jaw once more. Sighing quietly, he moved towards the kitchen, softly placing the paper bagged groceries the bench, next to jars of dubious looking substances, some of Sherlock's many experiments. John turned to wearily climb the stairs; not noticing Sherlock's reflection staring intently at him in the stairwell mirror.

Sherlock watched John turn the corner, before listening to him rearrange the object in his room in blind agitation. Curious, thought Sherlock, he hadn't seemed restless. Eventually, noises of shuffled of furniture and other such objects became few a far between, as John replaced his tension with weariness. It seemed entirely peculiar behaviour. Sherlock paused for a moment, unable to tell how long he had standing there listening to John. He moved to the curtains, where dirty white light streamed in. It was raining again, not a cleansing rain which removing all the soot and muck from the air, but a dreary blatter, which seemed intent on thickening and coagulating London's pollution to a sludge.

Sherlock turned away distastefully, and briefly glanced towards the stairs; he couldn't help but be curious. Then boredom half-forgotten, he silently made his way to Johns room with a graceful stealth.


	2. Watching Confessions

John sat, silent. It was beginning to occur to him just why Sherlock had strongly suggested that he shut up during **Lestrade's 'drug bust'.**

** Sherlock continued, "It was cocaine originally. Recreational. Between cases. Anything to numb the insipid boredom. Until this one case; drug related murder. The perpetrator, a dealer, decided to co-operate with the police. Information for leniency. Information on me." he said with a bitter half smile.**

** "At the time none of them could comprehend it. 'Genius; should know better; well aware of the risks, the danger and habit-forming potential. Where's the logic in that?' I could see them thinking. But that's the thing it ****_was_**** logical. Genius risks life and reputation. Therefore logically engages in dangerous risk taking behaviour to remain entertained. An answer so simple it never occurred to any of them.**

** "None of them seemed to get that solving crime is always about the unknown factor, the rogue element, and the danger which follows. Life has no unknown factor, and," he paused uncertainly, "I'm afraid of what I might do without it. Might I become the rogue element? An illicit narcotic was just safer."**

** It occurred to John, had anyone else said this he would have thought them balmy. But now that Sherlock had said it, it just seemed... logical.**

** " And Lestrade; Lestrade did the most stupid, magnificent, idiotic thing ever seen anyone do. He put me on every case, almost as if he understood that I was bored, even if I didn't understand why I chose narcotics. Everyone else thought he was insane, I thought he was irritating. Needless to say he got pick pocketed all too often." he said, another half-smile briefly pulling at his face.**

** A long silence befell them. John didn't know what to say. Sherlock hoped he wouldn't say anything at all; he'd never intended to tell anyone any of that. He'd only had the intention of reading John.**

** And yet, part of him felt revealed. Having only ever understood what it was to know someone, never allowing them to know you in return, Sherlock almost found a great relief in what he had said.**

** Confused by his thoughts, Sherlock stood, grateful for the dark. "I, uh, I have to go." he said awkwardly, hurrying from the room.**

** John went to follow, hesitating at the door, a million things ran through his mind. There was nothing he could say that would make any difference, especially whilst Sherlock was sulking. Why had he even gone to follow him? Running his hands through his hair he sighed, "Never dull" he muttered, crawling back into bed.**


	3. Narcotics

A/N - Thank you to my ever present and unofficial beta.

Thank you to arakmellon, doctorcoffeegirl, Kizuki-chan, random-acts-of-pieness and roxierocks for setting up alerts on my story, Thank you to doctorcoffeegirl for the review and Thank you to those of you who read silently, you all encourage me to neglect my own novel, and continue with such procrastinative writing. :P

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John sat, silent. It was beginning to occur to him just why Sherlock had strongly suggested that he shut up during Lestrade's 'drug bust'.

Sherlock continued, "It was cocaine originally. Recreational. Between cases. Anything to numb the insipid boredom. Until this one case; drug related murder. The perpetrator, a dealer, decided to co-operate with the police. Information for leniency. Information on me." he said with a bitter half smile.

"At the time none of them could comprehend it. 'Genius; should know better; well aware of the risks, the danger and habit-forming potential. Where's the logic in that?' I could see them thinking. But that's the thing it _was_ logical. Genius risks life and reputation. Therefore logically engages in dangerous risk taking behaviour to remain entertained. An answer so simple it never occurred to any of them.

"None of them seemed to get that solving crime is always about the unknown factor, the rogue element, and the danger which follows. Life has no unknown factor, and," he paused uncertainly, "I'm afraid of what I might do without it. Might I become the rogue element? An illicit narcotic was just safer."

It occurred to John, had anyone else said this he would have thought them balmy. But now that Sherlock had said it, it just seemed... logical.

" And Lestrade; Lestrade did the most stupid, magnificent, idiotic thing ever seen anyone do. He put me on every case, almost as if he understood that I was bored, even if I didn't understand why I chose narcotics. Everyone else thought he was insane, I thought he was irritating. Needless to say he got pick pocketed all too often." he said, another half-smile briefly pulling at his face.

A long silence befell them. John didn't know what to say. Sherlock hoped he wouldn't say anything at all; he'd never intended to tell anyone any of that. He'd only had the intention of reading John.

And yet, part of him felt revealed. Having only ever understood what it was to know someone, never allowing them to know you in return, Sherlock almost found a great intimacy and relief in what he had said.

Confused by his thoughts, Sherlock stood, grateful for the dark. "I, uh, I have to go." he said awkwardly, hurrying from the room.

John went to follow, hesitating at the door, a million things ran through his mind. There was nothing he could say that would make any difference, especially whilst Sherlock was sulking. Why had he even gone to follow him? Running his hands through his hair he sighed, "Never dull" he muttered, crawling back into bed.


	4. Out

**A/N - Thank you to my ever present and unofficial beta,**

**Thank you to TheDoctorsMistress for the fave.**

**To orsheeblue, Cyberbutterfly, and ladykerosene for the alerts**

**To doctorcoffeegirl and orsheeblue for the comments**

**Thanks all for your patience, I know this chapter has been a long time coming!**

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Sherlock was laying on the sofa, fully clothed, staring blankly at the ceiling when John got up the next day, "Morning" he called, to no response. Shrugging he turned away, almost certain that Sherlock had been wearing those same clothes the night before.

John wondered about exactly what it was that had happened the night before. It confused and fascinated him; Sherlock was like a blackhole – he absorbed everything and nothing escaped him... in any sense. He noticed everything of others, yet guardedly said nothing of himself.. which made John think that if he knew something, it was only because Sherlock Holmes had wanted him to.

By itself, this seemed to be a solidly logical conclusion, yet... Sherlock's sudden impulsive escape from the room suggested something entirely different. 'Maybe he hadn't meant to say anything...' thought John, "though it's far more likely he was just toying with me." he muttered with a half-laugh; he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do such a thing.

Sighing, John decided not to say anything, though he briefly wondered Sherlock's admission last night was induced by anything. He had assumed that Sherlock wanted tea, having not been bothered to ask and as a result placed the mug none too softly on the table in front of the sofa which Sherlock wholly occupied; then deciding to settle in a adjacent armchair.

Sherlock was mildly irritated at the thud of ceramic hitting wood, in much the same fashion as a migraine sufferer would be and decided to shoot John a dirty look; earning himself a small "Sorry" for his troubles.

Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling and John decided to ignore him instead reaching for the morning paper. A silence followed which was only perforated by the consistent crinkling of the news paper as John turned the pages of the London Times. Sherlock did not move.

Eventually John sat back, clasping his hands neatly in front of him and looked towards Sherlock in a way which could only be described as one of disbelieving incomprehension despite disproving resignation. This look usually followed a request to clarify an action or statement made by Sherlock (the intention of which was usually obvious) and proceeded some illogical comment about how "spectacularly ignorant" the genius could be.

Except, this time the intention of his actions hadn't been obvious, not even to Sherlock and that agitated him.

John decided to speak up, however before he could formulate the words, Sherlock stood, making his way to the door as he pulled on his coat and scarf. "Sherlock? Where are you going?" asked John. "Out" Sherlock sharply called, leaving the door wide open behind him.


	5. Vertigo & The Monster

A/N - Thank you to my ever present and unofficial beta,

Thank you to Starlite1 for the fave.

To iDestiny, RosesMelt, cinnabargrl and Rosebud in Amber for the alerts

To doctorcoffeegirl and iDestiny for the comments

For those who wish to know, the quote is Douglas Adams, who in no way would I ordinarily associate with Sherlock, but this quote just seemed to work so well :P

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Sherlock didn't know where he wanted to go; he just knew he didn't want to be _there_. The only thing worse than being stuck in one's own thoughts was being stuck in the presence of the subject of your thoughts.

He briefly entertained various ideas, namely breaking in to somewhere, getting himself beaten up by insulting some unsuspecting skinheads, conducting illegitimate business for the purposes of 'science', and even getting drunk, although the chance of that happening was minimal - it was an illogicality for Sherlock.

So he hid the only place he knew he knew offered legally acceptable distraction. St Barts. And besides, he knew there was a riding crop and cadaver there, not to mention Molly, whose mind just so happened to be so much fun to mess with.

Of course Sherlock's absence left John with time to think. Not that this was necessarily a good thing.

He was certain that had he not stepped in Sherlock would have taken that pill, yet he had no way of conclusively proving that Sherlock had chosen the right one. John knew there was no way he would get Sherlock to admit to something as such, he was far too stubborn, too proud and too cocky; unless... he had already done so. John dwelled upon this for a moment, Sherlock had said "you saved me"; had he been so sure about the pill he wouldn't have needed saving.

And yet as smug as he felt with this piece of logic, John couldn't help feeling utter terror at the thought that immediately after having shot the cabby, he was relieved, even satisfied. Who in their right mind would feel satisfied after killing someone?

No-one, "Not unless they're an axe murderer, and that can hardly count for in one's right mind." he muttered, rubbing his face, before folding his hands in thought. Any normal person would have gone into shock, but he just stood there. He shot a man, watched him die and felt no remorse, and he could blame army training all he liked, but this time, it was him and him alone, he had had no orders.

Sherlock had been wrong for once, John didn't just think, but now knew himself to be a monster.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets of London, not really paying attention, but all the while taking in data, just as he always did. Today, the cadavers had yielded no interesting information, Molly had not been in (neither he had noticed the incessantly annoying Jim, for that matter) and he had somehow managed to acid etch the lab bench with 50ml of 24 molar Anhydrous nitric acid. Breathing deeply, and sighing heavily, all the could think was that at least it wasn't the kitchen bench - both John and Mrs Hudson would have buried a tomahawk in his skull, had that been the case.

His gaze obtuse, he focused on nothing. A focus on nothing in particular meant that every object and every pattern was brought to the same clarity of focus at exactly the same time, allowing him to inpreferentially observe, despite its seeming paradoxicity.

That was, until something caught his eye. Written on the edge of the black bitumen, oriented towards the curb, so as to be readable from the pavement/footpath, was a single sentence and it read:

"IN FACT, VERTIGO IS EXPLAINED BY SOME NOT AS THE FEAR OF FALLING, BUT AS THE TEMPTATION TO JUMP."

Sherlock stopped very suddenly and stared at the curious letters, written in near impeccable capitals; their white chalk starkly contrasting the roads' charcoal surface. He thought about the literal implications of the statement, it seemed plausible, but entire unfounded, and, therefore, could only be interpreted metaphorically.

"Not the fear of something we can't control," he thought, "but the temptation of some thing we can."


End file.
